


Your Heart Will Break Whatever You Do

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Love is to Share Verse [3]
Category: Trinity (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lancelot’s first kill is controlled, quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heart Will Break Whatever You Do

**YOUR HEART WILL BREAK WHATEVER YOU DO**  
TRINITY  
Lancelot!Jonty/Galahad!Ross  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; spoilers for the series; serial killing  
First: [Love is to Share Mine is for You](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/21491.html)  
Interlude: [There is An Empty Space Inside My Heart Where the Weeds Take Root](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/22041.html)

  
Lancelot’s first kill is controlled, quiet. Cooper waits for him in the car with Galahad, one shaky hand encircling the steering wheel, gloved fingers flexing and curling tight and flexing once more. Cooper breathes out audibly when Lancelot slips into the backseat, his knee brushing Galahad’s knee, and he turns on the engine and starts down the road and nobody asks Lancelot how it went.

This is how it starts.

***

The first one is a man. The one after that is a woman with gold earrings and a cross on a chain and when Lancelot asks her for the time, she stops and smiles and lifts her watch and when the sun catches her eyes, Lancelot sticks his gun into the back of her neck and pulls the trigger and it doesn’t make a sound and she crumples against him like a falling leaf and Lancelot lays her gently down on the sidewalk and leaves before anyone notices he was there at all.

Maltravers takes care of the CCTV, like he always does. Cooper is sat in the car.

Galahad watches from a safe distance and he pretends not to cry when Lancelot takes his hand and leads him back, but he only turns his head and Lancelot can still hear his stuttering gasps and the way he pulls in air through his nose and Lancelot doesn’t say anything in the car, but when they get back to the facility, after Maltravers smiles and offers tea and biscuits and congratulates Lancelot on a job well done, they fuck in Galahad’s room against the wardrobe and don’t notice the framed picture of Galahad and the boy with his face cut out when it falls to the floor until later when they both find glass shards embedded in the bottoms of their feet.

***

Lancelot’s third kill is a schoolteacher two towns over.

His fourth is a copper.

Maltravers gives Galahad his first assignment and tells Lancelot to tag along and it’s nothing short of messy, wild, and it takes two hours to scrub the blood from the walls and Galahad looks frozen while he watches until, finally, Lancelot takes him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom and fills the tub with warm, clean water, undressing Galahad under the constant hum of the pipes. They slide into the tub and the water turns red and Galahad doesn’t cry, but Lancelot can feel him stiff against his chest, solid, and he wants so badly to wash away whatever Galahad is feeling, whatever Lancelot didn’t feel the first time he did this, the second, the third, the fourth, but he’s not sure what it is and he’s not sure if he should.

The body is lying prone in the hallway with its hand outstretched towards the door and if he leans out of the tub, Lancelot can see the tips of its fingers and it would be funny if Galahad wasn’t shivering in Lancelot’s arms, and it’s not funny, not at all. Lancelot thinks he can have a laugh at anything now if he tries hard enough, but Galahad will never be like him. Galahad will never be as cold and useful and sometimes Lancelot thinks about this at night when everyone has gone to bed and he lies sleepless, staring at the curves of the ceiling, wondering when the day will come that Maltravers gives up.

Galahad asks, “Is it always like this?” And his voice is numb, cold.

Lancelot pulls him back against his chest, slips his arms around Galahad’s middle, plants a kiss on the freckles dotting Galahad’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says, even if he’s not so sure what this is.

***

Maltravers smiles and smiles and keeps on smiling, his hands brushing Lancelot’s when he hands him files and pictures and names and tells him dates and times and hands him a cup of tea and won’t speak Galahad’s name. He never mentions Galahad’s kills (the second that got away, the third that Lancelot had to put down, the fourth that fought back), never mentions the way Galahad comes back sad and scarred and afraid of the consequences, comes back quiet even when Lancelot touches him and it’s angry, biting, his teeth and tongue and Galahad’s desperate, pleading mouth, and the way they leave blood on everything they touch and how Cooper wants to look away but Maltravers holds him still and he can’t even close his eyes.

And, later, Lancelot will kiss the bruises softly and tell Galahad that he’s sorry in more than words and Galahad will smile and tell Lancelot that he loves him and Lancelot will say it back, but not out loud.

***

They still monitor ever bruise and bump and ache.

They still poke and prod and Cooper will ask Lancelot what it feels like when the sky is blue and the grass is green and what it feels like when Galahad touches him and Lancelot will answer accordingly in those same monotone, mechanical answers that they expect even when his mind is saying something else. He doesn’t know what it feels like when the sky is blue or the grass is green, but he knows what he feels like when Galahad touches him. He knows what it feels like when Galahad’s mouth is on his mouth and it’s just the two of them and Galahad smiles more and Lancelot frowns less and they’re both so happy and small in this one little moment and there’s more than just some kind of physical connection, they know, because it’s all so primal and raw.

Cooper writes down something about the strained white line of Lancelot’s mouth, but it’s tiny and inconsequential and Maltravers glosses over it when he receives the report.

***

Galahad’s sixteenth kill doesn’t go to plan.

When Cooper’s watch hits four minutes since Galahad left the car, Lancelot’s heart stops. He finds Galahad in the hotel room, his fingers clamped down on something dark over his heart, something that has him breathing hard and shallow, something that has him whispering Lancelot’s name over and over. Lancelot sees the body on the floor and doesn’t register anything but the gun in its hand, and he’s swallowing the surge of something that leaps to his throat, and he’s beside Galahad and his fingers are turning dark, too, slick, when he peels back Galahad’s palm and sees the hole there.

“Fuck,” Lancelot swallows, and Galahad laughs, but it’s not funny.

“Can you stand?” Lancelot asks, and his voice is low and soft and steady, but there’s something inside him that feels like it’s as sharp as glass, that feels like it won’t ever come out.

“I can try,” Galahad says, and it’s enough.

Lancelot puts his palm over Galahad’s mouth to stifle the scream as he stands, and there are tears sliding hot over Lancelot’s skin and Galahad’s grip on Lancelot’s shirt is so tight that Lancelot thinks something might break, but he doesn’t care. The body lies still on the floor, and Lancelot doesn’t look as they move towards the door, mostly because he’s not sure what he would do if he turned, mostly because he’s not sure what he could do to hurt it any further, and then they’re out and limping towards the car and Lancelot sees Cooper’s eyes widen and his fingers scrabbling to turn the engine and Lancelot lays Galahad down in the backseat with his head pillowed on Lancelot’s thighs, and Galahad is turning pale under Lancelot’s touch and he wants to say something like “hold on,” but if he sees Cooper write it down in his little notebook, he’s not sure he could stop himself from killing him.

Galahad whispers Lancelot’s name one more time and that’s the last thing he hears before Maltravers takes him by the shoulder and steers him away from the medical bed, Cooper’s surgical gloves bright under the phosphorescents, bright with Galahad’s blood.

***

It’s a week before Lancelot sees Galahad again, and only because Maltravers leads him to the alcove to press a file into his hands and Lancelot peers out the window and over the side and sees him with his eyes closed on the bed, the machines beeping in fixed rhythms beside him. Maltravers sighs, and it’s pointed, but he lets him look, his hand gentle when he places it on the small of Lancelot’s back.

“He should be fine in a few days,” he says. And then he coughs, and Lancelot turns to look him in the eyes, and Maltravers gives him a terse smile. “I’ve received orders that he’s to be moved next week. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I thought you might want to know.”

And Lancelot feels that thing inside him, that glass that grows sharp again. “Moved where?”

Maltravers turns to look out the window again, his gaze sweeping over Galahad. “To another facility.” His back is a straight, solid line. “One with more experience in handling,” and here he pauses, like he’s waiting to see when Lancelot will lash out. “Failures.”

Lancelot doesn’t say anything, and Maltravers’ smile is triumphant enough to please, his fingers on Lancelot’s spine and Galahad on the medical bed looking like he is already gone, his mouth a pink line between his pale cheeks, and it’s then that Lancelot starts making plans.

***

(“Jonty,” the boy called Ross calls to him in a dream. The boy who looks like Galahad, the boy who Lancelot knows is dead, just like Jonty is dead.

“Jonty,” he calls, and he’s smiling and his teeth are white and when he starts to sing, it sounds beautiful.)

***

Lancelot keeps his hand over Galahad’s mouth until they get far enough away that no one could hear them. He has one hand around Galahad’s middle and another on Galahad’s frameless photo because it was the only thing he couldn’t leave behind (the only boy besides Lancelot that he couldn’t leave behind), and they limp across the campus and the field beyond that and then the woods and then the carriageway and finally onto a dirt road that winds for miles, where Lancelot can nick some old, nondescript car and take it as far as the petrol goes. Galahad breathes in short puffs of air and his head is on Lancelot’s shoulder and Lancelot can feel his lips cold on his neck, but his feet are still moving, if only because Lancelot is half carrying him, if only because Lancelot keeps murmuring how well he’s doing, how brilliant he is. Galahad’s shirt sticks to his skin, and Lancelot thinks he sees red around where the bullet wound would be, but he doesn’t want to see, can’t see, not until they get somewhere far enough away that stopping is an option.

“How far?” Galahad says, and his voice is hoarse, his throat dry.

“Not long now,” Lancelot lies. He found an old map in one of the drawers in Cooper’s office and he studied it every day until he could see the bends and curves of the roads on the backs of his eyelids, until he dreamed about every turn, every stop, every escape. They still have a while to go before the car parks start, before the houses begin.

Galahad laughs dryly against his chin. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know,” he says, and Lancelot smiles, shifting his arms around Galahad. “I’m not that useless.”

Lancelot bites his lip against the swell of ache in his chest, the brittle edge of the glass somewhere inside him, his eyes feeling heavy and slow. “You were never useless,” he whispers, but Galahad only murmurs something cold and incoherent against him, and Lancelot swallows hard because he knows Galahad won’t last much longer out here, won’t be able to go on like this, and he’s already starting to sag onto Lancelot’s side, his fingers clutching at Lancelot’s shirt, tight enough that Lancelot can see the strain, bright white in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, and Galahad shakes awake, his nose somewhere near Lancelot’s ear.

“I’m alright,” Galahad says, but it’s weak and unconvincing.

In the distance, Lancelot can just make out the headlights of a car rolling its way towards them, and he’s not entirely sure why, but he sticks out his thumb.

***

The man in the car smiles, and it’s too big and too bright to be anything but malicious. Lancelot sits in back with Galahad, his fingers brushing through Galahad’s hair, and the man looks at him in the rearview, looks at the way Lancelot places a kiss on Galahad’s ear, and the man swallows, hungry. His voice is eager, grating, and when he steers the car onto the side of the road and looks at Lancelot and licks his lips and invites him to sit up front, Lancelot goes, but only because it’s so terribly easy to kill him.

Galahad wakes up to the commotion, to Lancelot’s hands around the man’s neck and Lancelot’s thumbs pressing hard and slow, and he doesn’t say a word, but he turns his head and buries his face into the seat, unable to watch even after everything they’ve done. Lancelot takes the body and walks into the woods, far enough that the animals and insects will find it before any human will, and he covers it up with dead branches and brown leaves and smears dirt on the white parts of its skin with two fingers. He walks back to find Galahad vomiting in the bushes, his hand wide and pale against the trunk of a tree.

“Sorry,” Galahad says, and Lancelot places a dirty hand on the back of his neck and leaves a brown stain and Galahad smiles, and it’s not happy, but it’s real.

Lancelot lifts up Galahad’s shirt and the wound there is red and raw, but not bleeding anymore, and Galahad winces as Lancelot probes the skin, but Lancelot leaves a kiss somewhere where the bullet entered, turns him around, and leaves a kiss somewhere where the bullet left. Galahad leans against him, his back against a tree, his mouth fuzzy on Lancelot’s neck, and they fuck right there, with the hum of the car’s motor in their ears.

***

The car lasts only until the sun is sloping beyond the horizon the next evening and they steer it into a ravine and obscure the number plate as much as they can. The man who owned the car had only a tin of biscuits in the backseat, which were hard and cold, but easily divided between them, and Lancelot makes sure Galahad eats at least five before he eats one, too, watching Galahad chew slowly, his hand pressing into the ache of his heart. They find a stream somewhere close to the road and they drink greedily, Lancelot cupping water into his palms and running it across his face and the back of Galahad’s neck where Lancelot’s fingers had made marks. Galahad soaks his shirt to try and scrub the blood out, but ends up shivering for the rest of the night, and Lancelot pulls him close until they find an old, abandoned shed full of graffiti and rust where Lancelot decides they can spend the night.

Lancelot takes his coat and lays it on the floor of the shed, the dirty wooden planks smearing it with dust, and they curl together on top of it, Lancelot’s arms pulling Galahad close, Lancelot’s mouth on the back of Galahad’s clean neck. They lay there for a moment, the wind passing through the wood with growls of frustration, and Lancelot hears the rumble of thunder in the distance.

“Were they going to fix me again?” Galahad asks, quiet, and Lancelot moves so his lips touch Galahad’s ear when he speaks.

“No,” he says.

“Worse?” Galahad asks, and Lancelot feels him shudder underneath his wet shirt, so he pulls him even closer, their legs wrapping around each other.

“Much worse,” Lancelot says.

Maltravers had never said what they would do, the other facility that took in failed experiments like they were inanimate objects instead of human beings, but Lancelot remembers the images they showed him during training, the images of boys with their mouths sewn shut, boys with numbers tattooed on their arms, the boys who were worse than dead. Lancelot remembers, even if Galahad doesn’t, and he will die before he lets Maltravers find them.

***

Killing is easier without all the rules, but it’s messy, uncontrollable, without the constant gaze of a watchful eye, without knowing that the CCTV footage will be taken care of, without knowing that there’s a getaway car just outside. With the second kill on the outside, a boy who passes Lancelot a cigarette just outside a public toilet and lights it with the tips of his fingers lingering too long on Lancelot’s mouth, a boy who touches Lancelot like Galahad touches him, fingers quick and fast on his belt, with this boy writhing underneath him, with Lancelot’s hands around his neck impulsive, efficient, Lancelot finds it liberating.

With the boy slumped still against him, Lancelot finds it exhilarating.

***

(“Jonty,” Ross screams, only Lancelot can’t hear his voice over the loud, frantic beats of the pulse in his ears.

“Jonty,” the boy called Ross screams, and Lancelot wants to tell him that he’s dead, that they’re both dead, these two boys who were weak enough to give themselves to a project that only needed their bodies, the strength and weight and mass, and nothing of their minds, nothing of their souls. These two boys who were thick enough, daft enough, to give themselves over to something that didn’t need them to be willing.

“Jonty,” Ross’ mouth opens and closes and Lancelot can’t hear any of it. Ross’ mouth like Galahad’s mouth, a straight pink line smeared across his cheeks.

These two boys who are dead, these two boys who are never coming back, not even for each other.

“Jonty,” Ross screams, and Lancelot lifts his gun and pulls the trigger.)

Next: [And it Cuts You Like a Broken Knife](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/23701.html)


End file.
